Page 26 of Undercover Star
"You bet. When the workaholic suddenly chooses to spend entire days on his couch,withouta guitar, a notepad, or even a pen... quite a few people have started to worry. I talked to him before my trip. There's definitely something there, something unfinished. I just wish...."
"I do, too. Seeing a hint of the old Josh was heartbreaking. Especially now it's gone again."
The sudden ring of the phone on Tim's desk startled them both. Tim plucked the receiver from its cradle. "Montgomery."
"Oh. I didn't think.... Sorry. It's Matisse Vervein. I asked your secretary for an appointment to see you. I'm not sure why she put me through. I didn't mean to interrupt."
"Not a problem. How about lunch tomorrow? Would that work for you?"
"That would be perfect. I'll book a table at theBlue Boar."
"I'll see you then." He set the phone down, as carefully as if it were glass that might shatter at an unkind touch. "Matisse just asked to see me. I'm meeting him for lunch tomorrow."
Marissa Goodwin had never been trained as a singer, but her voice reached heights and decibels that made Tim's ears ring as she expressed her joy and relief.
Chapter Eight
"Mr. Vervein, your tableis ready for you." The porter had barely shut the door behind him when the maître d' materialised by his side, ready to lead him to the quietest corner of the dining room. Matisse appreciated the help. He'd booked the table only this morning, and had arrived early to avoid the inevitable queue gathering outside the entrance at lunchtime.
He asked for water, smiling when the server set a tray of nibbles on the table beside the glasses and carafe. "Thank you. I'm expecting a guest for lunch."
"Of course."
Left in peace, Matisse concentrated on the jazz dribbling from the loudspeaker. His mind followed the line of the saxophone as if he were listening to someone reading poetry, but after mere moments his thoughts wandered to dark eyes with long lashes and tired creases at the corners. To silky hair cut just short enough to stop it curling. To kiss-bruised lips that turned up in a barely-there smile. And to Josh's deep, raspy voice telling him goodbye.
Matisse reached for his glass and drained the water in one long draught. He should have ordered something much, much stronger. He toyed with the idea, then dismissed it. He brought his mind back to follow the music, only to lose the thread once more.
He could count on one hand the number of times when music hadn't soothed his agitation. He'd not even need all his fingers. The last time had been after his dad's accident, during the hours he'd sat beside his mother in the hospital, waiting to hear whether he'd recover.
This time, nothing so traumatic had happened. He'd simply been unable to dismiss his discussion with Marissa from his mind. He couldn't explain why, in just a few days, Josh had made such an impact on his life that he'd left a hole when he was gone.
Maybe the why was irrelevant.
He'd tried texting Josh. He'd tried calling. Both to no effect. Had Matisse's mistake at the gala gotten Josh into trouble?
Before Matisse's thoughts could tangle further, the maître d' led Montgomery to his table.
